


It's Just That You'd Never Really Known

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, F/M, Japanese Rope Bondage, Object Penetration, Pale Bondage (Homestuck), Pale Kink (Homestuck), Pale Porn (Homestuck), Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Rope Bondage, Sex, Shibari, Suspension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:43:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: When it all gets to be too much, there's a safe haven that you know.





	It's Just That You'd Never Really Known

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fox_Salz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_Salz/gifts).

> "Whether this is in the dreambubbles, brought back to life after the game, or canon divergence, I'm looking for some pale doloscar. He goes to her when everything gets to be too much--guilt, responsibilities, worries, etc. She centers him, acts as his anchor, gives him the release he needs to relax and forgive himself. I'm looking for BDSM, bondage, aftercare, and bonus points for subspace. There doesn't need to be penetration or even anyone orgasming, but I wouldn't say no to those."

You stumble into your shared room with the light of the moons still burning in your eyes. It's something you've grown accustomed to, over the long sweeps at sea and the longer sweeps at odds with yourself. Only difference is, this daytime, you're not alone to face it.

She's there waiting for you, a light in the soft, welcoming dim, her eyes bright and her hands soft. When you sink to your knees, it's at her feet, and your head fits so easily into her lap it's like you were made for this. When her voice runs over you, it's like the coolest, soothing drink of green: "Would you like to tell me what ails you? Or is that something you want me to work out of you slowly?"

_Oh._ You know which one you want, definitely, _desperately_, but you're still bound by tradition, by your position in )(er Imperial Condescension's Fleet, by any number of caste and status and _you_ related things.

But your moirail, she's amazing. She knows this. She knows this, she does not mind, and she knows absolutely, _exactly_, what you need.

Jade strength is nothing to mock; before you can regain any kind of equilibrium she's up on her feet with you in her arms. You'd startle and flare at the jar of your head off her lap, but she's even faster to soothe you, still, tossing you onto the well-cushioned concupiscent platform and—

Not following after?

You reply to this oddity with a whine, staring at her as soon as you've gotten yourself propped up on your elbows. "Zaniah, not to tell you how to run this show, but—"

"Settle," she tells you, and the voice is pure pale, a soothe that reaches itself all the way down to your bones. You immediately drop back down amongst the pillows. "I had an idea for something we could try."

You'll admit to being a bit fond of her ideas. She's never not had a good one, in your opinion, although some may have been cutting it close. This time, you can see what boxes she's going for, though, and you'll also have to admit—you've always been fond of the ropes. "Yeah? And what exactly might that idea be?"

"Insisting on knowing won't improve your chances of actually knowing," she tells you, and your fins cant down like you've been admonished. It's all part and parcel of the grand game with her, and she always makes sure you know exactly when you're playing. "Now, what did I tell you?"

Deep breath out, deep breath in, easy breath out. "Settle," you say, and do so, tucking yourself back amongst the pillows. You'll admit this to her alone: You _love_ it. You love having your higher thought functions tied up with the intricacy of your dance, just as easily as she ties up your limbs with delicate intricacy inherent to Jades and Jades alone. You _love_ trying to keep up with her on so many levels at once, and you love that she, as a moirail, takes you as seriously as one pitch partner takes another.

You won't admit (because you don't yet know) that she's slowly chipping away at your rigid definitions of caste and quadrant. You're not there yet. You'll get there, yet.

Zaniah returns to the bed, and her hands are graceful as they move over your limbs. Troll shibari is an art form she's learned to perfect ("A misspent youth," she told you, when you asked, and you'd burned to pry without wanting to press), and she uses it in part, you're sure, to protect you from the eternal turning of your mind. There are few trolls of your caste and your age who don't have a few extra urchins in the reef that last until they gain another few centuries and enough clarity of thought to clear 'em out, and the fact that you're one of them will make you better and stronger in the oncoming sweeps.

Her hands lift and turn you so easily that you forget for a moment she's a lowblood. This kind of finesse and control, hells, this kind of raw strength (or maybe, your brain suggests, still ticking even as she works you over, it's exactly that control and finesse of hers that allows her to so efficiently use her given strength), it's something you're eager to see more of regardless how much of a view you get. Rope follows rope, crossing into the constellation pattern inherent to her sign, and for a moment, it burns in your soul—you are _owned_.

Warm fingers on your nook distract you, and you chirr. Your bulge has already come spilling out, an instant reaction that completely escaped your notice, as entranced as you are, and you trill a question up at her. Will she continue this avenue of attention, or switch to another? How exactly is she to have you?

As long as it's been like this between the two of you, you've been eager to try out new things. The last time she tied you up like this, she had part of the rope for a leash and collar, tugging you in between her thighs and directing every movement you were allowed to make. You'd fucked her exactly as hard as you'd been allowed and loved every minute of it. Another time, she'd bent you across your own desk and had you until your nook was aching violet sore, and another still she'd ridden you until you were _sure_ her thighs would give out, and then gone back for even more.

So you've no idea what she has in mind this time, but you're more than ready for it, which is a _damn_ good thing when she does something funny with the ropes that has you up on your feet and one leg high in the air.

"You've bragged so often about your flexibility," she murmurs, one hand—painted your violet—tracing up your stomach. Your body jumps under her touch, and you fight the urge to tremble; you are no stripling fishertroll, fresh-plucked from the sea. You are the godsdamn _Orphaner_, and she'd do well to remember that—

She does, apparently, remember that, because her next move is a direct injustice to your nook. You keen, at the feeling of something so deeps damned—it's so _much_, is all you can properly think, and you don't even mind that because you love this part, you love it when everything falls away and leaves nothing but your _need_ behind—

Zaniah strokes all the inside lines of your nook with whatever evil tool she's putting to work today, and all of your toes try their best to curl, never mind that you're barely up on the right set of them. She's trying to work you up, you know it, and part of you rails against the idea of giving such satisfaction to her while you're still some degree of standing. "Look at me," she tells you, in a voice like she can already see the defiance her treatment's left behind, and you shake your head. You know what'll happen when you do.

Then she steps back—the thing's still between your thighs, but without her deliberately keeping it out of your view you can twitch your hips forward enough to catch a glimpse of the last curl of the whip—your _ship's_ whip, officially given and granted by the Condesce herself—still wrapped around her fist. Oh, hell. Oh _hell_. 

"Zan—" She's always been one for the theatrics, waiting to twist the whip—the deeps damned symbol of your authority and power—deeper inside you, waiting until you'd seen it properly, until you'd had enough time to be startled. Your wail would've echoed throughout the ship, if it weren't for the care you'd taken to mostly soundproof your room, and you've a feeling it's something she takes pleasure in, knowing that she'd gotten to you so much that you'd had to put in extra effort to keep your nose "clean".

Her response is a scolding click, and your fins cant down, even as they flush as violet as your nook with each thrust of the whip. "You do not get a bulge in you until you manage to come on this. Understood?"

Deeps take her for knowing exactly what you like.

You tighten up around the whip, as a substitute for rolling your hips in that way that shows your body off to its best advantage. The knowing goes both ways, and you see her eyes narrow on you as you up your efforts to be pretty for her, to behave in just the ways she likes, and the pace of her hand increases in kind. Nothing for it, then: You give in thoroughly, letting pleasure overtake you as you make your desperate little cries.

Even with her knowing you're doing this on purpose, she can't help but love it.

"I don't take kindly to this sort of behaviour during our pale sessions, Ampora." Her voice is as sharp as any whipcrack, and you let it run down your spine along with the other pure surges of pleasure. "Which means you'll be paying for it later, as you always do. Am I to assume you do this deliberately?"

You've got absolutely no ability to reply right now, but that hardly matters when she knows exactly what's the truth. It's another step in the dance, another piece of the game, and you flash her a wild grin _right_ before you spill violet all over yourself.

* * *

Consciousness fades back in and you groan. After so many sweeps, your body's memory for slight changes in state is nearly photographic, and you can picture—even if you can't consciously remember—the way she slid deep into your nook. You're still suspended, of course, which would've made the fit even more interesting. Now, though, you're snapped back into focus. Her bulge is twisting inside of you, in ways that make your toes curl (both sets, now that she's hiked your leg up the slightest bit higher.

"Good," and her voice is another pull, another snap back to attention, a whipcrack all its own, "you're awake."

You crack a grin. "Miss me while I was gone?" Your tone's not quite the shade of rough she likes, but you think she's determined to rectify that, or at least make you choke on your curses with each deep thrust.

Still, her expression hasn't changed. You're not yet sure if that's good or bad. "If you're awake," she tells you, "you can carry your own weight."

Oh, fuck. Your eyes barely have a moment to go wide, as your thinkpan sifts through that sentence to find the meaning _just_ before she lets your hip go and the ropes drop you down what little give they have—_squarely_ onto the last remaining inch of her bulge she hadn't bothered to force inside.

Your cry gives voice to pleasure that fades into so much sound of sea, each subsequent shift of movement another wave battering against you, over and over and over—you think you climax, you think you spill violet, you think it happens more than _once_, but there's no way to be sure—until you finally succumb, absolute stillness in your soul reigning supreme.

It's everything you wanted from this, and you hold as fast to it as you dare.

* * *

When you resurface into yourself again (goodbye, blissful silence), her warm hand is stroking over one of your fins. Ropes are coiled on a desk, just within your sight (you'll need to check them over and clean them properly after this), and she's got your hand in her lap (must've switched from massaging it to touching your fins once she noticed you stirring). You chirp a question up at her, and she gives you a soft smile in response, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. "I'll assume you're feeling better, then. How was that for you, palelove?"

"Perfect," you tell her, and don't even mind how uncaptainly you sound. You shift over yourself to bury your face against her, snuggling close, your reasons for it altogether happier than they were scant hours ago. "Absolutely perfect. Thank you."


End file.
